CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - I was hired to restore a mural in an abandoned church, but there was something alive in the painting

Episode Date: October 24, 2024

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Are they going to pump this out? Alec asked as he stepped awkwardly into the flooded basement, the water rising to just below his knees. I don't know, I said. Are they renovating this place? I don't think so, I said. It's just this mural they're after. Well, we're going to need it dry, Alec grumbled.

Can't run electricity down here like this. Gonna need it for the imaging equipment too. Yeah, I agreed. Plus, God knows what's in this water. Some of these tunnels must lead off to the catacombs. You can't be serious, he cried. His flashlight suddenly snapping from one bare stone wall to another. Are there actually bodies down there?

It's a church, I said. They buried people here. Not recently, but, yeah, it has catacombs. Don't worry, they're not just stacked up like firewood in some room. There's gates and stuff to stop people desegrating them. Alec shone his light at the water lapping around his feet and curled his lip. It was the colour of old coffee. I don't know how anyone can expect us to work in these conditions.

For the money they're paying, I'd work way steep in the Thames, I told him. The guy's last painting sold to $7 million. Do you know how excited the church was when they found out he'd be down here in the 70s? Whatever he put on the walls, they charged them with vandalism then. but now there's money on the line. They want whatever he did restored, packed up and sold. Alec coughed. Where's the damn thing anyway?

I stopped momentarily to get my bearings. Down here. I waved him on, and we delve deeper into the basement as I led us through a strange mix of large rooms and awkward tunnels carved directly into rock, some of which you had to stoop just a fit. Many of the rooms we passed had old boxes in them. One had furniture draped with once white sheets that were now mouldy and stained. Another had an old piano, the lid still up.

Thankfully, it wasn't far. A few minutes at most. Once we found the door, we both put our shoulders to it and forced it open. Water must have built up, because it came pouring out at waist height and nearly tugged us both of our feet. Bloody stinks, Alec cried over the roar of water, but I ignored him. Once it was safe, we stepped inside

and it was as if our lights grew dimmer and the air colder. A distinct sense that we'd cross the threshold, a long and empty room, where the only sound was water dripping somewhere in the distance. I was about to suggest we'd taken a wrong turn, but then I saw one of the walls that had been painted black, and there was something strange about it. It was only when you let your eye linger

that you saw the brush strokes, no thicker than my thumb. They covered every inch of it and caught the dim light of our torches, shimmering with the brief flashes of iridescent colour that were impossible to focus on. The longer I looked, the more I saw the great depths in that work. The texture alone was remarkable, like you were up high and looking down on a vast stretch

of unbroken ocean, rolling waves made of slick black water and the color. The closest comparison is what you see when you close your eyes. The whole thing made my stomach churn, but there was no denying its artistic merit. the kind of thing I could imagine hanging on a wall in the tape modern. No wonder the church wanted it restored and transferred out to the basement, but it would be no easy feat. It was huge. I don't feel too good.

Alec wobbled momentarily before collapsing. I had to rush, but I managed to catch him before his head went beneath the water. Damn, I hissed as I struggled to hold his weight with my arms beneath his shoulders. Panicking, I looked around for somewhere to put him, but the room was empty. If I let him go, he'd flop down and inevitably drown. But he was a big guy and my arms were already getting tired. I had no hope of making it all the way back to the stairs, but I remembered that room was nearby. the one with a furniture. It had have to do in a pinch.

Struggling to keep him upright, I dragged him slowly through the murky waters. It wasn't easy. While the ground was firm, it was still irregular and I was walking backwards through knee-high water. My mind fluttered through all the possible outcomes of this situation and inevitably focused on the worst. He could drown. get an infection, we could get lost. Those tunnels were tight and confusing. I can imagine it so very easily. The fear and panic of going around in circles.

Rough-hewn stone wrapping in on itself, so every turn takes me back to that place as my arms grow ever more tired. What would I do in that situation? I wondered. Would I let him drown? Or would I keep going until I collapse from exhaustion? And how long would I last? A few hours, a day, maybe more.

It was a silly idea. But it got my heart racing. Tried telling myself that I had it under control. I had a plan, a good one. Get him upright in one of those old chairs. He'd probably just fainted because of the air down there. Maybe he was more sensitive to it than most. But while I tried to keep my eye on him, watching for any signs of consciousness, I kept looking up at the tunnel ahead.

With each step, the darkness felt heavier, and the lapping of the water grew so loud, it seemed to almost hurt my ears. And yet, at the same time, I could hear my every breath as clear as if I was standing in total silence. Without any real reason for it, a cold dread crept over me. I didn't feel alone down there, no matter how hard I tried to dismiss it as a childish feeling. It just kept getting stronger. Each time I looked up, I expected to see something. God only knows what I thought would be waiting for me. But it didn't matter.

The mere thought there was something in the dark. or lurking beneath the water was enough to make me hurry. Even as I kept reminding myself, that was a great way to make a mistake. Thank God it wasn't far to the room with the furniture. There was no door, so I simply turned and plodded backwards until I saw a chair that looked good enough. Sure, it was disgusting and green with mould and mildew, but all it had to do was hold his weight.

Alec is a good six inches taller than me and built heavier too. So by the time I lugged him onto the chair, I was exhausted and had to stop and catch my breath. Hands on my knees, entire body trembling, I took a few seconds to comfort myself before leaning over him and calling his name. Alec? I cried, Alec. I gave him a few gentle pats in the first. face. He seemed to stir, but I couldn't say for sure. For goodness sake, I hissed, hearing just the slightest hint of alarm in my voice and trying to suppress it. Alec, wake up and let's get the hell out of... Someone pressed a key on the piano,

and everything inside me came to a screeching halt. It was dull and off-key, but there was no mistaking the sound that had come from the nearby room. I thought of there actually being someone else down there made my skin tight and my head ice cold. Took every ounce of willpower I had to stand upright and look towards the doorway. Mike, Alec groaned and I damn near jumped out of my skin. I don't feel well, he muttered while rubbing his face. It's so dark in here. I think I might be dreaming.

As the initial shock left me, I was flooded with relief and no longer being alone in that horrible place. You fainted, I said with as friendly a laugh as I could manage. Must be the air down here. We'll need respirators from here on in. I'm cold, he moaned as he pushed himself upright. I want to go home. Can I go home, please? Damn right, I said while taking his elbow and leading him to the exit.

I felt a lot safer, knowing it wasn't just me facing the darkness. But I still found myself hesitating as we passed the next room along. What is it? Alick asked as he paused the look at the old piano. Nothing, I muttered, before hurrying us both along. someone had closed the lid it's like a different painting when photographed

Marie burst her lips as she looked at the camera display something to do with how it catches the light she picked the tripod up and moved it several feet to a right she pressed the button and the flash went off in the dark room like a bolt of lightning

for an instant the whole place was laid bare roughly hewned stone and stagnant water. Look, she called me over. It happened again. I stopped my work setting up the fourth pump at the far end of the room and wandered over. So far, I'd managed to pump out most of the water, but it still lay an inch thick along the ground.

Of course, the rest of the tunnels were still flooded. No hope there. So the room itself was sealed off. sandbags at the only doorway with further waterproofing from rubber tarps. I'd since spent days trying to figure out where the last of the water in that one room was coming from and had been so busy chasing leaks that I'd had to hire Marie to help with the imaging. It looks funny, I said as I leaned over a shoulder and looked at the latest picture. The wall appeared as an explosion of psychedelic colours, closer to a tightest.

eye t-shirt than the black obelisk it was in person. But it's a weird piece, very textured, and the paint itself is quite unique. I'm not surprised that behaves strangely under her camera's flash. But look at it, she said. I did, I replied while wandering off, unwilling to stare too long. It's weird. I don't like it, she said, before quietly moving the tripod another few feet along. Me neither, I snapped as I knelt down next to the broken pump.

So let's get on with it. I need all the help I can get. All right, she thuddered. Where's your partner in crime anyway? Alex's not been feeling well, I said. Ah, that's a shame. Always liked Al. Another flash.

For a brief moment, my silhouette was painted in the wall opposite the mural. I could have sworn. it was a different kind of black, as if my shadow had texture, brushstrokes even. Before I had time to think about what I'd seen, Marie was suddenly standing by me. Still no luck with that pump? Driving me nuts, I said. Well, I want to set the x-ray up now. It won't take long, but we'll need to leave the room each time,

or at least I will, since this is something I do daily. I thought about staying in that place alone. Screw it, I'll join you, I said. Well, before we get going, I'm going to need help getting it into position. Sure thing, I said, as I took a hand to get up. It was a big unit designed to capture high-resolution images of what lay beneath paintings and canvases, essential for seeing the early work of a painter. In the few years I'd spent in the archives,

of the National Gallery, I'd always enjoyed documenting the strange artifacts found beneath famous paintings. Sometimes you could even see a timeline of the artist's process, preliminary sketches, features removed, background details added late into the process. Most people don't see there's more than one Mona Lisa lurking under all that paint. Okay, Marie said, as we manhandled the machine under the first little yellow marker she'd put on the ground. First of four, I'll hit the timer, then we'll make our way to the corridor. It'll beep when it's done.

Good to go. I nodded, and she hit the button. We walked briskly to the exit and climbed over the barricade, pulling aside the plastic sheeting I'd draped over the doorway. Just as Marie was on the other side, we heard the beep telling us it was done. Then we were back inside where she removed the plate, put it into a waterproof duffel bag, and the process began again. Each time we moved it further down into the long room. Each time it took a little longer to get back to the exit.

It was a pain in the ass, but necessary. Last one, Marie exclaimed, when we finally hauled onto the fourth yellow marker. I'm actually curious that take the case. a closer look at these pictures, you know, she added, before pausing to look at the mural. It's horrible to look at, but you have to admire the skill that went into it. It's almost, well, familiar. Her words trailed off, and she slowly tilted her head. I had to give her a nudge to remind her to press the button. She laughed, pressed it, and with that, we were both marching back towards the exit.

I quickly climbed over the barricade once more, turned to help Marie, but found myself staring at an empty doorway. The machine beat to say it was done, and I poked my head through the tarp and looked around, but couldn't see her. Confused, I climbed back in and scanned the room. Nothing. The machine was still there, humming away, but no. sign of the woman, who until just a few seconds ago, was right behind me.

Marie, I called out, but there was only the sound of dripping water. I was baffled. I couldn't understand where she had gone. She couldn't have gotten past me into the hallway. It just didn't make sense. But as the seconds turned to minutes, confusion was replaced with a chilling panic. Marie, I shouted again, and then again, and again. Each time my voice got a little louder and the repetitions grew closer together until I was pacing furiously, just screaming her name over and over.

My voice grew hoarse. I even stuck my head out into the corridor and cried out, but there was never any response. I checked every inch of that place, and when I didn't find her, I checked every inch again. Part of me started to visualize her eventual return, to hope for it, started to imagine that moment of relief, the sight of her appearing at the doorway before explaining where she'd gone. I held on to that fantasy so hard that at times it felt as if I was alive in two worlds at once, one where Marie and I were laughing about a slight misunderstanding and another where a woman could disappear into thin air. Surely the latter isn't reality, I thought to myself as I shouted over and over. This one has to be the dream.

But if it was a dream, I wasn't waking up. And eventually I accepted that I had to go get help. I didn't even grab my things before stepping out into the corridor. I was in a rush, desperate to get this nightmare over with, to get help and to find Marie somewhere safe and sound. But I only made it a few feet when I heard a voice call out to me from behind. Mike, I don't feel so good. Am I dreaming?

She was leaning on the doorway I just left. eyes sunken and cheeks sallow. Even her hair looked thinner. She looked like a woman who just spent a week on a desert island. Jeez, I cried before running over and grabbing her. She was closed to collapse, wobbling back and forth and clutching the door just to stay standing. Where the hell did you go?

It's so dark in here. I want to go home, she said. in a quiet drone, like a child that's been pulled out of a car crash. All right, all right, I said, let me... What is that? She was holding something in her hands. It was one of the plates from the X-ray machine. She didn't even register me taking it from her.

Down in the dark, it didn't look like much. And being in a hurry, I simply tucked it under one arm and helped her over the barricade. and into the water. Everything that followed was a rushed blur. I took her into the church, sat her on a pew and called for an ambulance. Paramedics quickly arrived and rushed her off, asking a few questions here and there about what I think might have happened. I'd no real answers to speak of,

but when I mentioned she didn't have a respirator on her, they all seemed to take it as a given that she had carbon monoxide poisoning. That was the official diagnosis for Alec, and I recognised the few of the paramedics from when I called them out for him, so they must have connected the dots. But carbon monoxide poisoning didn't explain why she looked so thin and...

I don't know. Broken. She looked worse than awful. Seeing her in that state had terrified me. At least she's in safe. hands, I told myself, as I watched the ambulance doors close. I decided it was time to call it a day and went to grab some of the things I'd left on a nearby bench when I saw the slide Marie had been holding. The light was a little better in the church, especially since it was midday,

and that broken roof filled the place with rays of amber light. I took the x-ray and held the backplate up, squinting to see what it showed. It looked like a hurricane of swirls and spiraling bone-white shapes, a confusing mess of strange distortions that reminded me distantly of the background of Van Gogh's starry night. Only there, in the middle of all those swirling, rolling lines and growths was a woman. Marie, in fact, I was sure of it. I was sure of it. and she had both hands clutched to the side of her head like she was screaming for her life. You saw it? The old man who'd answered the door was practically skeletal, but he wasn't infirm.

He glared at me with twitchy anticipation of my answer. He seemed ready to explode. You saw the mural? Yes. When my secretary got your first. phone call, I was ready to dismiss you entirely. Slowly, he looked me up and down like a piece of meat. You look.

Intact. I was... I tried speaking, but something about the old man's intense stare caught me off. Noticing this, he pulled the door open and gestured inside his luxurious apartment with one arm. Come in! he cried. I had my staff confirm you really have done work in the church. I'm fascinated by what you might have seen.

I was told you bought Mr. Hallswell's paintings, I said as he ushered me into a room, decorated with gleaming hardwood furniture and beautiful red velvet wallpaper. A collection at an auction, I stammered. You spent quite a lot of money on them. Yes, he replied, while Sisson. sitting opposite me. Howellswell was touched, you know, spent his life trying to exercise

the things he saw. Ah, right, I stammered. I just wanted to know if you had any information on the mural at the church. My boy, you've actually seen it, which makes you far more of an expert than I am. He spoke like he was giving me the greatest compliment. I never had the nerve to go luck. I love my esoteric hobby as much as anyone, but I prefer the occult, where it is unlikely to do me any harm. Well, I'm just concerned. I had two friends collapse in there, and one of them... Well, I can't really explain it, but she went missing for a while. The church aren't a lot of help, but they told me to speak to you if I wanted some information about the artist. Oh, the church has no real record of that place.

Not properly, anyway. What is it? I asked, growing tired and wanting to cut to the chase. What did George Howellswell paint? I've had two colleagues pass out down there, and now one of them isn't answering my calls. Please, I need answers. George didn't paint anything, he said with a shrug.

He was sent down as a handyman and found it behind the crates of old rubbish. Whatever he saw, he felt compelled to paint over it, an attempt at censorship. He wanted to hide it away. That's why he was charged with vandalism by the old priest who was long since dead. But George's efforts were in vain. He could not unsee what he had seen, and it would stick with him forever. I don't understand. The mural is?

He leaned forward and grinned. I could tell he was hoping for this. Yes, yes, he whispered. Tell me about it. It's not just tar on the wall, I said. It's more... It has a kind of depth. There are brushstrokes all over.

Thousands, if not millions. They don't look like they form a pattern, but they do. It sits behind your eyes and burns the sinuses. It's an impression of something, the darkness inside a coffin. It looks featureless, but it isn't. Sometimes, it's as if it crawls. Fascinating. Well, the brush strokes don't surprise me, he said, while sitting back with a satisfied grin.

George used his hands, but when he said, Whatever he tried to hide, it didn't just go away because he painted over it. He didn't erase anything. Merely changed it, gave it a different face to wear. But if it didn't make it, who did? he shrugged. Who knows? Those tunnels are so extensive because there were multiple archaeological dig sites held there throughout the 19th century.

They found mosaics dated to the Romans' first arrival in Britain. along with pots and clay that were even older. Some say the church was built atop it to hide the darkness below, but that was too long ago for anyone to remember. When I called the Archbishop to check if they had really sent you down there, they seemed under the misconception George had created the mural from scratch, but the painting on that wall predates us all. His shoulders sagged and a look of defeat took over him, as he added,

I wish I had the courage to see it. I was afraid. So often the truth can be frightening. When I heard Halswell's daughter was auctioning off some of his later works, I thought, I thought maybe this could be a chance to catch a glimpse of it, a way of seeing what George Halsaw saw, as retold by him, through new artistic expression. I sighed. This visit hadn't really told me a great deal of something.

so far. Sensing my disappointment, the old man smiled. Would you like to see them? His paintings? Suddenly, he was the spry and lively person who'd opened the door to me just a short while ago. He sprang to his feet and clapped happily. Come, come, come, come, he said in a frantic tone. Come, there's something special, whatever George saw down there. It really did a number on it. He wasn't taking no for an answer. He even reached out and grabbed my hand, pulling me along like an excited child, until we arrived at a small room he'd decorated as a gallery. The walls densely packed with paintings and prints worth millions, some of which I recognised

as worth millions, but he strolled past them like they meant nothing. When he shoved me eagerly in front of his newest collection, I understood where he was a little Why, Howellswell's paintings were not pure black, spiritual relatives of the mural, but with just enough light to see things beyond. They were detailed and beautiful, at least in the artistic principles used to make them, with forms and anatomy, the use of colour and space, but it was the contents that gripped me and made me nauseous. There were seven, all showing an array of people in various forms of torture and deprivation.

Flaying, amputation, drowning. Bright white eyes stared at me from the wretched abyss. But it was two of them in particular that had me feeling like my heart was about to fall out through my stomach. They showed me, Marie and Alec, thin and starved. Weeping and broken, screaming into the emptiness, and some unseen force dragged them into the icy black water. It shouldn't be possible. George Halswell had died 16 years prior. There was no way he could have painted my friends.

But there was no mistaking the people in those images. Christ, he'd even showed Alex's tattoo. Whatever was buried down there and found by George. The old man said, as he savour the shock and terror on my face, is an open invitation to something no one wants to meet. I would say best of luck to you and your colleagues, but there's no point you're already done for. Al, come on, let me in!

I banged on the door for the tenth time without reply. Last time I'd seen Alec was when I'd driven him home from the hospital. after he collapsed, and that had been three weeks ago. I just assumed he'd gone to stay with his parents like he told me he was going to do. But after I saw those paintings, I had a terrible feeling that something bad had happened to him. I called his parents, hoping he'd be there, but they told me they hadn't heard from him. Didn't even realize anything bad had happened. Half an hour later, and I was outside his door doing everything I could.

to reach him. Come on, I shouted before knocking again. Marie's missing. Is she with you? Please, Al, tell me you're both okay. Anxious and scared for my friend, I put my ear to the door, hoping I might hear him approaching.

There were only faint sounds of movement. Irregular, the slightest suggestion of someone talking. Al, I cried. Al, please. Please open up! Something loud struck the door and made me jump, and that sinking feeling in my chest grew worse. He was alive at least, but that didn't mean he was okay. Even if it meant making him mad, I was going to have to get in there and check on him. Thankfully, I had a spare key from a long time ago and used it to pop the door open just an inch or two and peer inside.

but there was only darkness. Al, I cried to the small opening and immediately regretted it. Something about the smell of that place, mildew and damp. It made my skin crawl, and the carpet was soggy, like there had been a leak no one had bothered to fix. It reminded me of the church basement. not just the water or the smell, but the shadows, the distant sight of doorways leading into empty spaces reaffed in darkness. I didn't want to announce my presence in that place, but I had to let Alec know I was entering his home. Alec? Alec, it's Mike, are you in? There was a muffled bump way off in the back, so I pushed the door open.

rest of the way before propping it in place with a nearby extinguisher. The light that streamed in was feeble, but it offered me slight comfort. Unfortunately, I only took a few steps before the door slammed shut, and I was left in total darkness. Desperate I grabbed my torch and turned it on, and what I saw nearly made me drop it again. There was someone staring at me from a doorway at the far end of the hall, sunken eyes and pale skin, hair thinning so badly I could see the scalp, inflamed and roar. And that expression, a dull but hateful glare, the drooling gaze of a lobotomized killer. I didn't even

recognize it as Alec at first. It took a few seconds of being gripped with terror, before I realized it was my old friend, leering at me from a darkened room. Alec? I stuttered. Are you okay? He said nothing. He simply stepped backward and seemed to dissolve into the very shadows.

I summoned what little bravery I had left and took a few careful steps towards the doorway where he'd been, but I still couldn't see anything. Only when I stood so close that I had one hand on the jamb did I manage to get a good look inside. Alec was crouched in the corner near some broken furniture, nude and pale, spine jutting out between distended shoulder blades like a starved survivor. He was muttering quietly to himself, the same phrase again and again. I couldn't be certain.

But it sounded like he was saying, it's so dark in here. I wanted to call out to him, but the words were caught in my throat when I saw his blackened fingertips and the buckets of empty paint. He had remade the mural, or perhaps just some version of it. A dark and confusing mess of thick, glassy obsidian brushstrokes that covered an entire wall. His TV lay smashed on the floor where he pulled it down. His sofa pulled out. The coffee table tossed aside. It was like he'd been in a mad rush to get at the wall.

Now everything in that place was broken, taken to pieces, worse even. A lot of it was rotten, turning to filth and mould. It was as if the church basement was crawling out of that black wall. Must the air and stagnant water seeping through the waxy paint to taint everything it touched. Al, I said, unable to hide the tremor in my voice. We need to get out of here now. He looked at me with teary, desperate eyes. He says, if you want us back, you know where to look.

With alarming speed, Al jumped upright and ran towards us. the wall, where he disappeared into the paint like a rock falling into water. I thumped down into the water with a splash and immediately scanned the basement. Black water rippled away into the distance as my chalky light swept over old boxes and broken shelves. I tried everything to hold onto that sense of urgency and bravado that had compelled me to come rushing over to the church. But in the face of the aching darkness that lingered at the edge of my torchlight, I could

already feel it slipping away. I knew I had to go marching into those shadows, deep into the tunnel at the far end of the room that would take me to the mural. I had to save my friends. Every time I thought about leaving them to their fate, I remembered that painting, the look on their own. faces. Agony and torture written in such despairing eyes. If there was even a chance of reaching them, I had to try. And given Owl's words to me in that apartment, there really was no doubt

about where to look. Each step was a struggle. The sound of water drove my paranoia to new heights as I kept stopping, expecting to hear the footsteps of some unseen pursuer. or perhaps something up ahead. But it wasn't until I reached the room with a piano that I finally heard the sound of someone else down there with me. Music. I stopped, not quite sure whether I could trust my senses. Was I really hearing it?

Or was my terrified mind just conjuring the worst-case scenario? But soon enough, the background noise died down. And clear as day, I could hear a dreadful. song. A strange, discordant tone, weak and off-key, played with only the vague memory of real musical talent. Shaken with terror, I dipped my light in a desperate bid to make myself less visible and approached the doorway. Marie was sitting there, waiting for me. I recognised her as my friend, but this was not the woman I knew. It aged decades in the time since I'd last seen her, and grown so thin she didn't even look human anymore.

And her eyes, beady and black, nestled above a manic and sadistic grin that was anything but joyful. He's taking its time with you, she said in a lilting sing-song, before rising to face me. A broken, sagging body on full display with thick, knotted scars. This was not the woman I'd put into that ambulance. Maybe it was her after she'd survived a nuclear war. But no, it simply wasn't possible that she could have changed so radically in so little time. But that was her face, twisted with hate and a kind of hunger, but still her face. She looked ready to lunge at me, the tense anticipation of a coming.

and I really didn't like the thought of those bitten yellow nails scratching at my face and eyes. But instead of leaping, she simply giggled and slid quietly into the water, disappearing beneath the black surface. I contemplated leaving and turned to look the way I came, but some 20 metres away, my light caught glimpse of Marie's frightening face staring at me.

I jumped. shocked at how she'd managed to slip past me and all the way over there without me noticing. And now she waited, daring me to try and leave. I wanted to. I wanted to march over there. But geez, the look on her face. I decided I had no choice but to move onwards to the mural. Maybe Alec would have come to his senses and could help me. A slim hope.

but that was all I had to steal myself. So I walked slowly to the final doorway and stepped over the sandbags and into the room with a mural. Everything was where we'd left it weeks before. Even the old X-ray machine was on its tripod. Slowly, a kind of darkness seeped into my thoughts and the air grew dense and fluid,

filling me up like I was drowning in filth. I tried to keep my mind in order and work out the next course of action. But it was useless. I fell to my knees and started to heave. But the harder I fought for breath, the worse it became. Minutes stretched on as the edges of my vision pulsed red and black, and I realized it was as if I was drowning but could not die. And then a horrible notion started to burn its way

into my mind. Slowly, it came to me as a powerful truth that all the time I'd spent outside that room was a lie, just a kind of dream. All the daylight I'd seen, the mornings waking in my own bed, the sight of London skyline, and the sound of a world made of bright and colorful things. Those memories were just a thin plastic over a far deeper truth. That room, Alex's collapse, Marie's disappearance. They were the only real things I'd experienced, and the cold and damp and dark were all that remained to me. There was no outside world.

All of that was a dream. His dream, the only thing that really existed was the ocean on the other side of that wall, and everything else was dreamt up by something. that lay in its depths. I nearly collapsed beneath the weight of those thoughts. Every breath was a struggle. Every moment I tried to recall from my old life was like passing a kidney stone. And then I heard it.

A trickle. Looking towards the wall, I saw water seeping out of the paint like sweat from skin. Slowly at first, but then it grew and grew. until the trickles turned to a steady pouring, leaks springing in a dam that held back waters from another world. Eventually, it gave. All at once, a great and terrifying torrent of black water spewed from the painting. It did not last long, a few seconds at most,

but it was enough to quite suddenly fill the room with another foot of water. And once the foam and crashing waves dispelled, I saw him, Alec, kneeling in front of the mural. It's your turn in the dark now, he groaned. And all thoughts of rescue fled my mind as I looked at him. What had I even been thinking going there? What was I going to do against that? You couldn't fight it, couldn't stab it or kill it. And Alex's words had chilled me to the bone.

God no, I thought. No, I'm not going there. He wants one of us back in there. And it's only fair it ain't me. Alec cried as he rose to his full height. Whatever he'd been through, he was in a far worse state than Marie. He wasn't just starved.

He was falling apart. his torso covered in great weeping lesions so large and deep that you could see exposed muscle and bone beneath. It was as if he'd been coughed up out of some giant's belly, half digested and barely alive. No, I muttered. No, no, no. We had our turns. He screamed suddenly. We went in.

It's your turn now. I ran. launched myself over the barricade and fled screaming down the tunnel. I moved through the water like I never had before. I wasted no time looking behind me, didn't even waste energy on thoughts of what was happening. There was only the need to drive one leg forward through the water like a piston in an engine. The burning in my muscles didn't matter. The thunder of my beating heart, so wild and furious if it'll be able to.

like I might just collapse and die at any second didn't matter. None of it mattered. All that existed to me in those desperate few minutes of flight was the memory of the world above. Sunlight, birds, smiling strangers and delicious food, my home and my bed, a world where things made sense. I was crying when I finally reached the basement and saw the stairs leading up to the light. My heart quickened as I climbed up them on all fours, and my hand reached out for the final one. When the world exploded, pain, red. Something like lightning seemed to shoot out of my mouth, spreading across my face in terrible pulses of agony.

I had slipped and smashed my face under the final stone step, catching the very edge of my bottom teeth, shattering them into shards that now floated freely in my mouth. But that wasn't what brought me out of the shock. No, what brought me back into awareness was the feeling of cold water rising over my shoulders and a hand clamping onto my ankle with almost machine-like strength. Alec had caught me at the final moment. I was now dragging my floating body back towards the darkness. I wasted no time. I immediately. She thrashed and struggled to find my way back onto my feet, as he turned and pummeled me with ape-like blows.

"'It's your turn,' he bellowed. We spent our time in the dark. In the frantic struggle I saw Marie crouched in the corner and sobbing. "'We were all his anyway,' she whined like a petulant child. "'We all have to take our turn. One way or another, he has us.' She launched the self towards me, and I finally lost all desire to help my friends. I hit her as hard as I could.

One solid blow in the face. That scrawny little neck whipped back, and she disappeared beneath the waves. Geez, I still don't know if I killed her. I only know that from that moment on, it was just Alec trying to drag me back towards the mural. He'd always been bigger and stronger than me, and while he was a bone-thin ghost of his former self, he still held on to me with a steel grip using one hand while he rained terrible blows down in my head with the other. Bloody and confused, I ended up using one hand to cover my face while the other groped desperately for anything I could use. Eventually, I found something cold and wet and wet and cold.

slick, an old piece of wood. I swung it as hard as I could, and it broke across his face like rotten mulch. He stopped and grinned. It hadn't even phased him. But where the old piece of wood had broken, I now clutched the jagged collection of splinters. Gritting my teeth and tapping into what little reserves of anger I had left, I reached forward and drove the few. inches of broken wood into the largest open wound of his gut. This time, he didn't grin. He screamed and let go of me, staring in horror at the filthy wood jutting out of his flesh. I wasted not one second more waiting for him to recover. I ran up the stairs and up into the open light of the church and slammed the trapdoor shut with a heavy, fine,

final thud. Alec and Marie were found unresponsive in their homes just a few weeks later. Not much was made of the painting on Alex's wall, nor the one Marie had apparently made herself. The police questioned me briefly, but seemed to ask a lot of questions about drugs. I think, based on the state of their homes, the police thought that Marie and Alec had been addicts. Flooding, mole decay. I did ask the police to destroy the murals they had made in their homes, but they told me it'd be down to the landlord to deal with the repairs, although they said that both apartments would likely have to be gutted and rebuilt from scratch.

Alec and Marie are still in hospital to this day. Comatose. It was years before I summoned the strength to visit them, and even then, I never went further than the door to Alex's room. I merely lingered there and watched him for a moment, hoping that I might convince myself that everything that had happened

was just some kind of sick dream. Hopes that were dashed when Alec briefly came awake and turned to me. It's your turn in his belly, he said. This life, or the next, you're going there,

he grinned. before collapsing back into unconsciousness, and I left and never returned. Since then, I've worked a number of jobs, the sole requirement being that I never want to work on another painting again. Retail, construction, factories, anything, so long as I don't have to pick up a brush or look at one's work. Alex's words in the hospital have frightened me so deeply, but I doubt the fear will ever fade. Each night, I dream I'm back in that basement. Others, I'm in a timeless void, and something terrible is looming towards me.

A mouth bigger than most football stadiums, ringed with teeth several stories high. But the worst are the ones where I'm entrapped, suffocating, and total darkness, as some invisible fluids burns my skin. But, no matter how much I scream or cry, I can't claw my way to freedom. Instead, the more I thrash, the more those ribbed mucus-covered walls seem to compress around me, until I can hardly breathe. These dreams are growing more frequent, and recently I have begun to worry that Alec and Marie were right.

It is my turn in the darkness. It has always been my turn. This life or the next. It's where I'm going. Or maybe I'm just going mad. After all, I woke up this morning to paint all over my hands, and the beginnings of something strange daubed in filthy finger streaks upon my wall.